


The Federal Bureau of Incredibles

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #HanniBelles, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - The Incredibles (Pixar Movies) Fusion, Don't copy to another site, F/F, Grim Reapers, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, M/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: Grim Reapers are contracted through the Federal Bureau of Incredibles, and every Reaper is assigned a designated handler and allotted a yearly quota of murder displays. The Chesapeake Ripper is the most famous Reaper, both for his intricate displays and for his tendency to go over the quota for said displays.Alana Bloom has just been assigned to be the Ripper's newest handler.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 296
Collections: #HanniBelles2019





	The Federal Bureau of Incredibles

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for [Cinnamaldeide's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide) [2019 Ladies Appreciation Week](https://twitter.com/Cinnamaldeide/status/1190247660554461186) for Hannibal! 
> 
> This is also 1000% the fault of [TigerPrawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerPrawn/pseuds/TigerPrawn). Don't believe me? [PROOF](https://twitter.com/SilverQueenLady/status/1193344291525017600).
> 
> This is my first time writing an entire fic from a POV that isn't Hannibal or Will (I don't think dæmon!POVs count), so my apologies if Alana or Margot or anyone else is a bit OOC. This is also my first time writing a fic where Hannibal is NOT a cannibal, so I get to cross using that tag off my writing bucketlist. 
> 
> Inspirations for this fic are The Incredibles, and a touch of Pushing Daisies. Only a touch though because I've not watched that show.

When the telephone rings the second Alana walks into her office, she really debates not answering it. Nothing good ever comes from answering a phone call at seven in the morning the first thing on a Monday morning. 

But Alana is also technically still a consultant, not an official employee, and she’d really like to keep that consulting position, so she sighs, puts down her bag, and answers the phone.

“This is Dr. Bloom, how can I help you?”

“Dr. Bloom,” says the woman on the other end of the phone, “I have a proposition for you. How would you like to be promoted to full FBI agent status this morning?”

Alana has to take a moment to pull the phone away from her shoulder and gape at it. The display is lit up and showing that the call is coming from an internal number, so it’s not like it’s a scam caller, and it’s way too early for a prank call. Especially on a monitored and recorded official FBI telephone.

Thankfully, the woman is still patiently waiting when Alana manages to pull herself back together.

“I’m not sure I quite understand what you mean.”

“How about this? It’s early. I’m at the coffee shop just outside, why don’t I pick you up something and we can chat about the offer in your office?”

Alana normally gets coffee from the shop just outside the office when she takes a morning break. It’s quiet and charming, despite the fact that most of the customers are government officials, investigative agents, or plainclothes officers. And it has amazingly fast service, probably in service of this particular customer base. 

“Sure. I usually get a – ”

“Oh, I know what your usual order is, Dr. Bloom,” the woman says. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Then the phone goes dead, before Alana can even protest or ask for her name.

Still, even though Alana isn’t an FBI agent, she’s not stupid. She’s worked and consulted with the FBI for long enough to pick up several very important clues. Firstly, for the woman to have her office number means that she has some access to personnel or investigative files, as not just anyone knows her internal office number. Secondly, for the woman to be only ten minutes away, she must already be in line, so she must have known Alana would pick up, which means she has access to Alana’s schedule, as she isn’t in every day and alternates with teaching or substituting for other teachers. Finally, and most importantly, if she knows Alana’s usual order, then she must have either access to or arranged for surveillance. And not just anyone can do all of that.

Alana checks to make sure nothing too personal is out, touches up her make-up, locks her bag in her desk, and slips her phone in her pocket with the menu already open to her FBI options, which will mean the phone will alternately start recording the conversation or dial security, depending on what key phrases Alana speaks.

Then she sits down at her desk and gets ready to see what happens.

* * *

When the knock finally comes and the door opens, it’s the last person Alana expects. She has an entire head of bright red curls and even brighter red lipstick, and she smiles Alana glimpses the sharp teeth of a predator.

“Good morning, Dr. Bloom,” she says cheerily, setting down the coffee on the desk.

Alana shakes her hand on auto-pilot, and it isn’t until they’re both sitting down that she puts two and two together and recognizes the woman.

“And you’re Special Agent Freddie Lounds,” Alana says, watching as Agent Lounds smiles even sharper at Alana’s words. “You made quite a stir when you graduated the Academy, as I recall. Turned down a very promising post in the field to become a Special Agent associated solely with Internal Affairs.”

“It’s Deputy Director Lounds now, actually.”

“Congratulations on your promotion,” Alana says after a moment. She knows the ranks as well as anyone who isn’t an FBI agent, and she knows it isn’t usual for special agents to jump into directorships. That being said, she isn’t about to say so in front of a director. “But I don’t think you are here to discuss that with me.”

“You’re right,” Director Lounds admits. “I am here because I have a tiny little problem, and I am told you might be our best bet for fixing it. You specialized in psychiatry, yes? At John Hopkins.”

“That’s correct.”

“And how long have you consulted with the FBI?”

“Only about three or so years now. I was originally called in to consult on a case, and I guess they liked my input.”

“And the case was?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper. He was never caught, unfortunately.”

“What do you remember about the unsub?”

The case of the Chesapeake Ripper had caused national attention after five bodies were discovered in five different states. Every morning, there had been a new body in a new state, as though the killer was working his way through the entire country state by state. Every agency had been hot on his tail until it was confirmed that the kills were Reaper kills.

Reapers, by law, cannot be charged, cannot be convicted, cannot be arrested. They aren’t truly human, after all, and are not bound by human laws.

The last time someone had tried to imprison a Reaper, the entirety of their kind had made themselves known and thousands had died in the Black Plague. Humanity has not made that mistake again.

“He was . . . very methodical. Very precise. Everything was meticulously planned and arranged and organized. Most Reapers kill quickly and quietly, but the Chesapeake Ripper made a show out of it. To him, it was art,” Alana recalls, remembering countless hours bent over dozens of high resolution photographs of bodies posed in churches and museums and, in memorable occasion, the house of an actual human serial killer, who’d tried to shoot him and ended up dissected across the entirety of the first floor for his trouble. “I never thought we would catch him, even before it came out he was a Reaper.”

Lounds hums. “Your profile was very accurate, especially for someone who didn’t have all the details.”

“And that’s why you want to offer me a position.”

“You’re quick,” Lounds says. Then she grins, predator-sharp, and Alana feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “That’s why we need you. How about we discuss this in my office?”

Alana waits until she’s gotten all the way to the door to ask her next question, just to have some distance.

“This isn’t a thinly veiled suggestion for me to conveniently forget all of my memories with the FBI and disappear, is it?”

“Of course not, Dr. Bloom,” Lounds says. “You might be our best bet for stopping the Chesapeake Ripper, after all. Why would I want you to forget everything and disappear when I need that sharp mind of yours?”

* * *

Freddie Lounds tells her twice that all of her questions will be answered in her office, so it’s a pretty tense ride down the elevator. Alana doesn’t take her bag, because she can tell Lounds is telling the truth about wanting Alana in one piece, but she does keep on one in her pocket, ready to press the panic button that is the third option on her special FBI menu.

They go all the way down to the basement, and then down a very long corridor to a pretty small office for a director. It has no windows, three chairs, one desk, one wall covered in bookshelves and file cabinets, and nothing else. The carpet is thick and squishy, perfect for sound absorption and probably terrible for cleaning. About the only personalized item is a small wheelchair figurine, painted in such vivid reds and oranges that it almost looks like it’s on fire. There’s also a nameplate, but Alana has to blink when she reads it, because it looks like it says _Fredericka Lounds, Deputy Director, Federal Bureau of Incredibles_ and that can’t be right.

Lounds rounds her desk and sits, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Now then, I hope it goes without saying that nothing discussed here can leave my office.”

“Of course.”

“Excellent.” Lounds pauses, twirling a curl around her finger. Her eyes are laser focused on Alana’s face, as though she’s memorizing each twitch in her expression. It’s rather akin to a hound waiting for the signal to bolt onto the moors and catch a rabbit. “Now, as you’re probably aware, the FBI has a lot of different departments. Some of them are so top-secret that no one knows their names or that they exist. I happen to be Deputy Director of one of those departments. We call it the Federal Bureau of Incredibles – mostly as a joke from our founding days, but the name stuck. A more accurate name might be the Federal Bureau of Reapers.”

And now Alana knows why Lounds was watching her every facial expression. Still, Alana’s heard enough crazy things in the FBI to keep her face completely blank. 

“Reapers aren’t under governmental control,” Alana says carefully. “Unless you believe that journalist.”

Lounds makes a face. “Yes, Jack Crawford is . . . extraordinarily talented at getting in places we really don’t like him to. If he was one of us, he’d probably be among the best. But he’s too busy inflating public fear with wildly imaginative speculations about Reapers, so we just let him be.”

“Are you saying he’s lying?”

“Most of time he’s actually quite on the money, if wrong about the specific details.”

Alana lets that sink in for a moment. If Jack Crawford is right, and his countless columns and articles and interviews are right, then Reapers – those who bring death to humans who have escaped it or are judged worthy of death, the most impartial force on the planet, the most unstoppable killers in the world – are government contractors who sometimes accept freelancing gigs or intelligence assignments and bring death to government targets as well as their own. He’d said it was a compromise reached during the world wars, as a way to keep unnecessary death off American shores and focused on the enemy. America had been the first country to successfully weaponize their Reapers, and Crawford had said it was because they had been offered free rein and also possibly virgin sacrifices.

“I’m assuming the virgin sacrifices were one of those incorrect specific details?”

“Those were the early days, and I’m afraid the founders didn’t leave very . . . accurate notes. It is said that the first agent who secured the cooperation of a Reaper did so and never spoke again, so it’s unknown how he did it.”

Lounds pauses and observes her. Whatever she sees seems to make her happy, since she leans back and smiles.

“You aren’t panicking.”

Alana smiles tightly. “When you work in an official capacity, you learn very quickly that panicking is something that they’d prefer to allow men to do. Women who partake often aren’t requested to return.”

“Sadly, very true. It’s why I was requested to handle this department, after all.” Lounds’s smile grows wider. “Unfortunately for my predecessor, the Reapers ended up preferring my . . . female touch, and they ran him off. Something about preferring a no-nonsense relationship without overly masculine posturing.”

And, well, Alana can certainly applaud that. She’s had more than enough of her share of masculine posturing.

“Now, then: the Federal Bureau of Incredibles is responsible for all of the Reapers who have agreed to work with the government. The numbers fluctuate, of course, as Reapers go all over the world and some lose interest in doing business with us. Every Reaper has a dedicated agent, or at least an agent of the region that he or she agrees to work with. This arrangement has worked beautifully for dozens of years, but recently, we’ve run into a slight problem with one of them.”

“The Chesapeake Ripper,” Alana guesses.

“Exactly. We request that Reapers stick to a strict quota of two public displays a year, which is more than enough to satisfy most of them, since they prefer having quick kills. Sometimes we can negotiate for more when we bring new Reapers on board, but it’s rare that a Reaper has ever crossed into our borders and outright been offended at the negotiation table. Some idiot looking for a promotion apparently tried to promise him at least thirty displays a year, with the implication that he needed such a high quota to compensate for lack of self-control, and the Chesapeake Ripper was so offended that he ate his brain.”

Alana has to laugh at that. If the Ripper is anything, self-control is it. His displays are meant to be self-expression, not an indication of loss of self-control.

“I can see why the Ripper was offended,” Alana says. “But the Ripper stopped. Was that the FBI?”

“He eventually agreed to work with us, and trust me, it was a hard-fought battle to even get him to the table. Since then, no agent has ever lasted longer than a month as his handler.”

Alana can easily read between the lines. The Ripper wasn’t stopped so much as he _chose_ to stop, either because eventually the novelty wore off or perhaps the anger ebbed enough for him to come to the table. But he has a high standard, and when agents don’t cut it, he ensures they know they’re no longer welcome. And now, Lounds is coming to her because she’s probably run out of volunteers, and Alana wrote the profile that helped them track the Ripper down the first time and make it through negotiations without more brain eating.

That being said, the glow of knowing she was right doesn’t mean she’s eager to throw herself on the menu.

Alana leans back. “I have a very nice job as a consultant. Why should I agree to this position?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions.” Lounds tilts her head. “I’d say it was for service to our government, but I already know that won’t appeal to you; you’re already educating the minds of our finest to serve, after all. I could also point out that this position comes with more benefits than you currently have, but the private sector would probably match our offers and then some.”

“Not a great pitch so far.”

“No? How about this, then. You would get a front row seat into the Chesapeake Ripper – and see just how right your profile really is.”

Alana remembers the frustration when the case had abruptly been closed and her access revoked; she went from being cabinets deep in the case to being as shut up in the cold, not even being acknowledged by those she had helped. Above all, she remembers the curiosity about the mind of someone like the Ripper – so closed off and so expressive, so calculating and so open, so destructive and so artistic. Everyone had been clamoring to know whose theory was right when the Ripper bodies had stopped dropping.

And now Alana might get that chance to find out firsthand.

But first: “How do you know he won’t be offended that a non-agent is being assigned to him, Director Lounds?”

Lounds smiles. “Call me Freddie. And don’t worry. The paperwork to transfer you into my department as a full time special agent went through half an hour ago. Welcome to the FBI, Agent Bloom.”

* * *

Apparently the headquarters for the FBI within the FBI are inside a secret elevator behind a wall inside Freddie’s office. So after yet another long elevator ride and down another long corridor, Alana finally steps into the FBI proper, which is apparently a lot of labs, interview rooms, offices, and a command center with a _lot_ of glowing dots on it.

Not too different from the FBI Alana is acquainted with, actually.

Except, of course, the fact that some of the people wandering around are dressed in the all-black flowing uniforms of the Reapers.

Freddie pulls her into a side office, explaining that the Ripper is on his way. “Normally he avoids HQ and does his own thing, but today he’s coming in to turn in his old uniform and pick up materials for a new one, so I’d figured it would be a good place to catch him.”

“They turn in their uniforms? I thought they – ”

“Appeared fully dressed in black with a scythe to boot?” Freddie says dryly. “No, apparently that was just the drab wardrobe of the first Reaper and now they’re all stuck with it. Their dress sense is apparently beyond human comprehension, so they utilize a human tailor to make it actually visible to humanity.”

“An accurate summation, if lacking in details.”

Alana turns to find a tall man in an expensive three piece suit standing casually inside the door, even though she didn’t hear it open. Dressed like that, he wouldn’t be out of place at a high society event, although Alana can tell from his posture that this is one of milder outfits. Work-casual, if that was possible for someone like him. Alana can’t read much of his face, but she can feel the standard uneasiness that comes from being so close to a warrior of death.

“Good morning, Dr. Lecter,” Freddie says, her smile somewhat strained. Apparently when she said negotiations were hard fought, she meant it.

Dr. Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, inclines his head, but his eyes narrow in on Alana. It’s the one part of him that could never pass for him, given that they glow red. A soft red, but a glowing one nonetheless.

“I go by Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” he explains, stepping forward to extend a hand to Alana. “I’m afraid my true name is somewhat . . . unpronounceable for human vocal chords, but this is a rough approximation, if you will.”

He even brings her hand up to his mouth for a gentleman’s kiss. It fits perfectly with the Ripper’s sensibilities.

“Approximation of sound or meaning?” Alana asks, before she can stop herself.

Dr. Lecter raises one eyebrow. “An interesting question.”

Alana hears the true meaning, like a whisper in the wind: _No one has thought to ask me this before._

He is silent for a moment, apparently deciding whether to answer or deflect, and eventually his brow smoothes out and he replies, “Both and neither. Our language could never directly translate to yours, for we have many more terms for death than you ever will, and no terms for sentiments that are meaningless to us. And our language is not truly spoken, not in the way humans understand sound and speech. I suppose a more accurate explanation would be that I selected a human name I felt best fit me.”

 _The Ripper never lies_ , Alana remembers telling the agents studying her profile. _His kills are honest, just brutally so. Don’t try to search for dishonesty in your suspects; he’ll likely admit to what he’s done, just maybe not in the manner you expect._

“I think that’s how all human names are chosen,” Alana says. “Cloaks to fit us, and not walls to restrain us.”

She doesn’t mean it as a compliment, although others might have, but Alana can tell that Hannibal takes it in the spirit it was meant; a friendly olive branch for discussion, as opposed to flattery to gain his favor and attention. He’s not stupid, after all, and he must have his fair share of experience in weeding out the genuine from the fake.

“And yet I have the disadvantage of not knowing yours,” he says. “May I?”

It’s a loaded question. Reapers are not all-knowing; they only kill those who they know the full name of. It ensures they always strike the target they mean to, but it also means that sometimes people are afraid to tell them because they think it means they’ll be next on the chopping block.

Alana is afraid, but she’s also good at spotting tests. The gentleman who kissed her hand is not one who’d slaughter her seconds after acquiring her name. The Ripper would want to peer inside her first.

So Alana smiles, eases her shoulders and opens her posture, so that Dr. Lecter can see that she sees, and she knows how the game is played. “I’m Dr. Alana Bloom.”

“Hmm. My new handler, I suppose?” 

“If you two are compatible,” Freddie says coolly. “We only want the best for our agents and the Reapers, after all.”

A faint hint of displeasure enters his eyes. “Yet she is a new agent and therefore has no compatibility test on file to be matched with my own. It will take us time to fill out those forms, and I have an appointment with Miss Verger very shortly.”

Freddie hesitates. Alana can completely understand. On one hand, Freddie has to follow protocol, because she’s the deputy director and can’t be accused of favoritism. On the other hand, clearly Hannibal Lecter abhors rudeness, and to be late to an appointment would most certainly be rude, and Freddie has no desire to be eaten for presuming to make Hannibal appear rude.

Alana cuts in before it can get ugly. “How about a compromise?” she suggests. “I haven’t met Ms. Verger either, so why don’t I accompany Dr. Lecter – if he’s agreeable – and fill out the forms on the way?”

“Are you asking for my permission, Dr. Bloom?” Hannibal appears delighted. “I thought you reported to Director Lounds.” 

“And Director Lounds has asked me to work with you.”

It’s not a victory, and he knows it. However, he appears even more delighted at the thought that Alana is attempting to outmaneuver him on his own chess board, and all without leaving the grounds of a courteous first introduction. 

Never let it be said that the Ripper doesn’t enjoy playing with his food.

“Well, then,” Hannibal says, “I suppose every relationship is one of compromise. Let’s be on our way, Agent Bloom.”

* * *

Hannibal is courteous enough to give her more information about the Reapers and the FBI on the car ride to Miss Verger. 

“We’ve been mistaken for many things: angels, witches, sirens,” he explains. “But we have always followed the code of death, and fought for it where we needed to. When we came out to humanity, as it were, we found it very difficult for humans to understand that we were all one and same, all warriors working together for the same goal. So it was proposed that we unify under one uniform, and humanity had conveniently already given the grim reaper one. The FBI therefore employs tailors to ensure our uniforms are up to date and within the realm of human comprehension.”

“And the uniforms cannot be mass produced? Usually the FBI tries to make budgets more efficient wherever possible.”

Hannibal smiles. “I’m sure attempts were made. But we alone produce the material, and select only the most talented to share the secrets of our craft with. Miss Verger is the best in the trade. She has an impeccable sense of style.”

Alana raises her eyebrow. It’s high praise from the Reaper best known for his artistic displays, and it makes her curious at the woman to whom the Chesapeake Ripper considers the best.

After undergoing some security checks, Alana steps out of the car to discover that apparently being the best in the craft of Reaper clothing means the salary to afford a very big mansion, complete with garden hedge mazes, fountains with cupids and centaurs firing off water showers, a family sigil carved into the wall, and enough stairs in front to make anyone wince at the prospect of climbing them all to reach the door.

Luckily, Hannibal peels off and heads towards one of the two small huts that flank the stairs. Alana had assumed they were garages or service entrances, but the door opens and a lady comes out. She is dressed in a very fashionable golden shirt and black skirt, and her long brown hair falls in curls around her face. Crystal teardrops glitter from her ears and match the diamond necklace adorning her neck.

She is, in a word, absolutely _stunning_. 

Hannibal has a genuinely welcoming smile on his face, and when he reaches her, he actually dips in a short bow before accepting her hand to kiss. From the matching smile that blooms on her face, this is just typical Hannibal behavior.

“Agent Alana Bloom,” Hannibal says, “may I introduce you to best in this craft, Miss Margot Verger?”

“Flattery,” Margot says dryly. “You must really want something.”

“You know Reapers do not lie.”

“That doesn’t preclude you from not telling the truth,” Alana points out, and she feels a warmth in her belly at the way Margot’s eyes crinkle as they make eye contact. There’s something very guarded about Margot – something buried, something old, something painful – so to see her obviously thinking the same thoughts as Alana and making eye contact in acknowledgement feels a bit like successfully crossing an ocean.

Margot turns to face her, each movement sharp and smooth despite her tall heels. She may have earned her wealth, but Alana can still tell she came from money.

“Agent Alana Bloom,” she repeats thoughtfully. “I heard of a Doctor Alana Bloom who wrote the profile on Hannibal over here when he was introducing himself to America. Is that you?”

“I see you’ve read my work.”

Margot leans in, voice set at a stage whisper. “Hannibal doesn’t tend to be the most forthcoming of my customers. Sometimes it helps to read an outsider’s point of view to be able to understand what he’s saying.”

“I speak perfect English,” Hannibal objects, looking a bit put out that they’ve so easily teamed up against him.

“Yes, you do,” Margot says, patting him obligingly on the arm. “Now let’s get on to your fitting.”

The security is no less formidable inside than outside. Margot has a top of the line security system, and before entering the workshop where she apparently does most of her work, she has to give her palm print, type in a password, submit to a retinal scan, undergo facial recognition, and speak a specific pass phrase. Hannibal then waves his own palm over the scanner, and also adds that he is taking a guest.

Then they’re stepping into the workshop, and it’s the most beautiful lab Alana’s ever seen. 

Against one wall is a display case, which Margot explains she uses to test out various parameters like stretchiness or fire retardation. Another wall has drawers from floor to ceiling, presumably containing lots of different fabrics and dyes to personalize uniforms. The next wall contains a bathroom on one side and a changing room on the other, complete with the three mirror set up Alana’s only ever seen in wedding dress shops. Finally, the last wall is basically just one large set of floor to ceiling windows, allowing for beautiful natural light to fall upon the entirety of the workshop and illuminate all of the tastefully matching tables, chairs, and sofas.

Margot has a soft look on her face when Alana comes back to herself. “The expression on your face,” she says, “is the whole reason I made sure this room was built to my specifications.”

“You designed this?”

Margot shrugs. “I had a lot of dreams and spare time to sketch when I was a kid.”

“And is this what you always dreamed of? Being a Reaper tailor?”

“Well, no. But I can’t imagine everyone’s childhood dreams come true. And this one fulfills a lot of my desires at once, and gives me a lot of creative flexibility.”

Hannibal pokes his head out from the changing room. “Margot, there’s no cloak.”

Margot doesn’t even look up from where she’s pouring herself some wine. “No cloaks, Hannibal.” Her voice is so calm it’s almost like this is an argument they’ve had a million times, although judging from the surprise on Hannibal’s face, it’s the first. Alana guesses she must know Hannibal very, very well, then. 

“The cloaks are traditional.” Hannibal is almost _pouting_.

Alana would call it cute, but instead she remembers the first time she had seen a Ripper kill, and remembers that this pouting man is capable of murdering everyone in a fifty mile radius without pausing. So she just accepts a glass of wine when Margot questioningly tilts the bottle in her direction.

“They are also a hazard,” Margot says, seating herself elegantly into a sofa and crossing her legs. “They can get caught in things, they can stuck on things, they can throw off your balance and make you trip.”

“I am a Reaper; we do not trip.”

“My security footage of you says otherwise,” Margot replies dryly. “If you weren’t able to shadow-walk, you would have ended up in my fountain.”

“Margot – ”

“No capes, Hannibal.”

Hannibal is either too polite to pursue the argument in front of Alana or he’s properly cowed by Margot’s refusal to bend. Alana suspects the latter, mostly because Margot’s tone of voice conveys absolutely no fear of the Chesapeake Ripper – and absolute confidence that she is right and will win this battle, no matter who is listening. It’s absolutely amazing to watch a Reaper back down before a woman.

Hannibal ducks back into the changing room, lips pressed tightly together, and Alana has to toast Alana.

“You’ve certainly got him pegged,” Alana says in admiration.

Margot smiles, sharp and wicked. “Oh, he likes to be all fancy and highbrow, but really, Hannibal’s a man like any other. Once you understand his principle desires, you’ll understand him, and it does make life so much easier.” She pauses to sip her wine. “Plus he knows that there aren’t any tailors of my caliber in this area, and Hannibal would never be caught dead in anything less than perfect.”

“Principle desires?”

“What every man desires. Connection. Romance, if you’d like to be fancy. You cannot fear Hannibal after you’ve seen him send puppy eyes at someone.”

“I would pay to see such footage.”

Margot winks. “Well, you’re in luck, because I can probably arrange for a live viewing.”

Before Alana can ask what she means, Hannibal emerges, and all thoughts of puppy eyes are driven clear out of her mind. Hannibal appears every inch a Reaper, with an impeccable black suit, exquisitely tailored to match him perfectly, blacker than the deepest night, and even adorned with gleaming black cuff links and buttons. The only splash of color is a blood red pocket square, upon which is embroidered the black scythe symbol of the Reapers. With the hood up and hiding his face, Alana could even think him just another Reaper, ready to pass judgment on a poor unfortunate soul.

Margot twirls her finger, head tilted in thought, and Hannibal obligingly swivels to give them a full view of his entire body.

“Hmm,” Margot says, tapping one finger against her glass. “The hood isn’t falling quite as deeply as normal – take it off and let me adjust that.”

The suit is so beautifully made that Alana can’t make out any seams, but Hannibal runs his finger along the bottom of where the shirt would be, and then he’s pulling the shirt off and handing it – hood and all – to Margot, who starts examining it under the light.

Even concealed by his suits, Alana could still tell that Hannibal was muscular and fit, but now, with his shirt off, she can really tell. She might even have been attracted, once, if she hadn’t already seen the countless photos of the carnage he left behind when he came to America. Reapers aren’t serial killers any more than GPS units are serial stalkers – they’re just fulfilling their purpose – but it’s still hard to be attracted to a man she knows sentenced a person to die by pouring hot tea down their throat until they’d boiled alive.

Alana is broken out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. It opens before Margot can say anything, which means whoever it is, they have security privileges.

It’s a man, dressed in worn khakis and flannels, and he’s covered in grease. He seems perfectly aware of this, carefully avoiding going anywhere near the furniture as he approaches, and with his eyes focused on the floor and his hunched shoulders, he seems perfectly harmless.

Key word being “seems”.

Alana knows a dozing predator when she sees one. Not that she thinks the man is going to attack her, but there’s something dangerous lurking below those hunched shoulders, just like something lurks beneath Hannibal’s perfect suits. He was born with it, but it awoke within him late in life and reared its head with powerful instincts clamoring and pushing, and so he buried it back inside, stuffed it down and kept it there with an obsessively normal life, flannels and all. Hiding, as it were, in plain sight.

The man startles when he realizes Alana and Hannibal are there. “Oh,” he says, voice tinted with the edge of a Louisiana drawl. “I didn’t realize you had guests.”

Margot waves an absent hand. “They’re with the FBI, so they’re customers. It’s okay, Will. Are you finished?”

“Yeah, the engine should be working perfectly fine now. Just had to replace a part.”

“The payment will be in your account by day’s end.”

It appears to be all Margot is going to say, and all Will is expecting, the tried and true ritual between a handyman and his employer, but as Will nods and turns to leave, Hannibal suddenly is there, intercepting him with a patiently open expression on his face.

“Hello again, Will.”

“Hello, Doctor Lecter.”

It is very strange to watch their conversation, because it too is clearly a ritual, but instead of equal engagement, Hannibal seems to be trying to provoke a response, or at the very least eye contact, while Will seems determined to stay out of it, give monosyllable answers, and stare determinedly down at his scuffed shoes.

Margot tsks from where she’s sewing a stitch in Hannibal’s hood. “They’re like this every time, I tell you.”

“How many times is every time?”

“Seven. And believe it or not, it only took one time before Hannibal broke out the puppy eyes.”

Alana risks a look back, and sure enough, Will has managed to wriggle free of the conversation and is walking quickly towards the door. He doesn’t seem offended or scared; more like he’s built up a nice shell of isolation around him and prefers to maintain it. Which means excluding outside people like Hannibal, who is indeed staring after him with longing puppy eyes.

“Oh my god,” Alana says, because before two seconds ago she never could’ve believed the Chesapeake Ripper could pull off puppy eyes.

Margot comes up beside her, shaking her head. “As I said: puppy eyes.”

Hannibal has managed to pull his usual stoic face back together by then, so Margot heads towards him with the hood in her hands. They start discussing it in low voices, which means Alana is the only one free to see the way Will pauses at the door, hand tight on the doorknob. His head cocks ever so slightly as Hannibal speaks, and he even starts to turn back, but then he shakes himself and vanishes through the doorway.

 _Connection,_ Alana thinks to herself, and sips her wine.

* * *

Two weeks into being Hannibal’s handler, and Alana can see why other agents might have been driven off, eaten, or resigned. Hannibal is incredibly fussy and pretentious and obsessive, but he is also meticulously organized, polite, and surprisingly open to negotiation. As long as she makes no outlandish assumptions, he is perfectly willing to meet her halfway most of the time.

He still is over the preferred quota, but given that he’s gone form 30 displays a year to 15, she’ll count it as an improvement.

He’s also an amazing chef, and will frequently bring in snacks whenever they meet for reports. Well, what he calls snacks. Alana would not call a meal of glazed pork, baked asparagus, and homemade bread a snack.

“How do you have the time?” Alana asks him once, because she’s seen the thought process that goes into his displays and it’s a lot.

Hannibal taps the side of his nose. “Trade secret. Oh, and Reapers don’t tend to need sleep.”

By week three, almost everyone is both completely astounded that Alana’s alive and completely relieved. In the past, finding out who to call to speak to about Hannibal apparently was rather like finding a needle in a haystack – and that was assuming the needle hadn’t quit. Now, her phone rings a lot about Hannibal.

This is why when it rings late one afternoon, Alana picks up the phone and asks, “What has he done now?” because that’s just how the day has been going.

Laughter meets her words. “Hannibal’s being naughty again, isn’t he? Hi, Agent Bloom, it’s Margot. I was wondering when you were coming on for your fitting?”

“Fitting?” Alana stares blankly at the wall, because her mailbox is empty and she hadn’t received any notice.

“Sometimes handlers travel in the field with the Reapers, and so the FBI has found it is best to set aside some money to allow handlers specialized uniforms as well,” Margot explains. “Hannibal is one of the best, so when he requested a fitting for you as well, HQ jumped to approve it. You’ve made quite an impression on him.”

“Hannibal didn’t say anything to me.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t have. You’ve seen what his fashion sense is, right? I think he assumed you’d turn him down if you thought he wanted to dress you.”

Yesterday Hannibal had turned up in a bright plaid suit. Alana had been halfway caught between admiration at his daring and astonishment that he didn’t look flat out ridiculous. One unfortunate soul had made a crude remark and Hannibal had subsequently stalked after them while Alana sighed and filled out yet another requisition form for an over-quota display.

“I suppose I agree; my style is a little less . . . bold.”

“He’s as flamboyant as a peacock,” Margot says tartly. “Which makes incorporating his sense of proper fashion into his uniform a right pain sometimes. I imagine you will be far easier. How do you feel about red?”

Alana duly makes the appointment, because why not, and when she shows up to Margot’s mansion, the lady herself escorts her inside. The workshop is no less beautiful at night than it is during the day, except now the light comes from soft lamps strung from the walls and glowing constellations painted in the high ceiling. Even the view is still exquisite, as lights dot the gardens and ponds below.

“I made three potential outfits,” Margot says, gesturing at the mannequins as though she had three days to put everything together and not less than three hours. “My eye’s pretty good so everything should fit beautifully, so just let me know which pattern you prefer.”

One is a lovely red pantsuit with a black inner shirt, which under the right light glimmers with the scythe of the Reapers. The second is a black and white patterned shirt with black pants and an even darker shade of black for the coat. And the third is black and white striped pantsuit paired with a stark white shirt.

“The FBI tends to favor pantsuits for uniforms, I’m afraid, or I’d make you a nice red dress,” Margot says wistfully. “Maybe for one of Hannibal’s dinner parties.”

True to her word, all of the suits fit amazingly well. 

“You have quite a good eye,” Alana says.

Margot winks at her. “Years of practice. And, of course, very good eyes. I was blessed genetically.”

They settle on the black and white striped pantsuit, both for how it fits and for how it matches Hannibal’s own uniform. Alana is packing it neatly away and straightening out her own clothes when the phone rings and Margot apologizes and dashes over to the desk.

“Margot Verger, how can I help you?”

The phone is in the shape of a pig, with a curly tail serving as the cord and the legs keeping it perched upright on the desk. It takes the pig imagery for Alana to put it together.

“Verger. Heir of the meat packing dynasty?” she asks casually when Margot returns.

Margot shrugs. “Not really. I have the wrong parts, you see, and the wrong proclivity for parts. When brother dearest got tired of sharing his toys, he turned me out. He tried to convince me to come back when he got bored, but by then Hannibal had already taken me under his wing. The one and only time he dared to come to the mansion, Hannibal . . . gave me the supplies to take care of him.”

Alana tries to imagine the reaction of whatever poor soul had to file that report. Still, it explains why Mason Verger hasn’t made a public appearance in years after an “accident”.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Alana says truthfully, and Margot’s smile becomes a little more brilliant.

Then it turns coy. “So. Did you see Hannibal’s puppy eyes?”

Like Alana could ever forget seeing the fearsome Chesapeake Ripper stare longing in the distance after someone who didn’t even meet his eyes. “I think he went past puppy eyes and went into full on pining in the rain.”

“I imagine he’s done that too. But Will’s determined not to so much as give Reapers the time of day, never mind a dinner date.”

It’s an interesting word choice. Margot says “Reapers” and not “Hannibal” and she’s not one to beat around the bush regarding Hannibal. There’s plenty for a sane person to object to about a Reaper taking interest in dating you, yet Will seems to dislike Hannibal more on principle than perhaps in actuality.

“So Will doesn’t like Reapers? Or did Hannibal annoy him?”

Margot shoots her a sly look. “See, you’re learning Hannibal pretty fast. Although no; Will’s objection is more about the Reaper thing. Will has a case of Daisies.”

Alana has to stare at that. There have been maybe three cases of Daisies confirmed worldwide since the diagnosis was established after a rather a spectacular demonstration where a woman had touched a man and brought him back to live in front of a medical conference full of doctors. She’d been summarily released from the asylum where she had been committed for, supposedly, having delusions about reviving the deceased. The only other case of Daisies was a man who, after being diagnosed, decided to live out the rest of his life in seclusion. In Antarctica. 

“Is it confirmed?”

“Yep. If I hadn’t believed it from the fact that he always wears gloves,” Margot says dryly, “I sure as hell believed it when he brought back my pet dog. I think that’s why he likes being a mechanic. You can control what you bring back to life if it’s a machine.”

It makes sense, although it sounds awfully lonely. Yet: “Wouldn’t a Reaper be able to cancel that out?”

“I don’t know. Will’s not eager to give it a try though.” Margot pours herself a new glass of wine, topping Alana’s off with a flourish when she tips the bottle towards her in invitation and Alana nods. It’s as elegant and beautiful as everything Margot does. “But he is an extremely good mechanic. If you need anything fixed, you should give him a call.”

“And he’d take it? I got the impression he wasn’t too thrilled about the FBI.”

“Oh, he’s not. Story goes that Freddie Lounds brought him in to consult and pushed him a bit too hard, so he bit back. He got the job done, of course, but he sure made them foot the bill for a fortune in dog sitting fees by the time he got out.”

Alana is hard pressed to hold back a smile at that. She can see how dogs might appeal to someone determined to be alone yet wanting warm bodies to cuddle with at night. Touch starvation sucks.

“Good use of red tape maneuvering.”

“Oh! Speaking of red tape.” Margot hops off her chair and then returns with a tablet. “Add your palm print. That way you can enter at will and I won’t have to escort you all over the place.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I do it for all my friends,” Margot says, and Alana has to give herself a minute lest she drop the tablet.

By the time they finish their wine, Alana walks out with a beautiful new suit, Will’s phone number, and a burning urge to spend the night looking at fabulous paparazzi photos of Margot.

* * *

After that, Margot starts to text Alana. Usually small things, but by far the funniest are when Margot sends pictures – sometimes blurry but always perfectly angled – of Hannibal’s puppy eyes whenever he comes in contact with Will. Will, it seems, is Margot’s go-to on-call mechanic for whatever problems she might encounter in her mansion, and since it’s a mansion, there’s a lot. Hannibal, because he genuinely enjoys Margot’s company and bringing her food, also gets the chance to bump into, but it appears he makes little progress.

In return, Alana texts Margot whenever Hannibal and Freddie get into a politeness match. It’s their version of shouting, because they just get aggressively politer.

Still, Alana isn’t blind. She notices that the politeness matches start happening more frequently the more Hannibal sees Will and is instantly rebuffed, although Will apparently is never rude enough to warrant Hannibal giving up. That, or he’s so deep in his starry-eyed adoration that the thought of giving up never crosses his mind.

Unfortunately, Margot completely agrees with the latter. It doesn’t make Alana’s life any easier when she has to fill out multiple over-quota forms though.

Fortunately, eventually something in the universe gives.

* * *

When Alana walks out to her car and hears the whimpering of a puppy, the first thought that crosses into her mind is that her phone’s ringtone has been messed around with. The second, when she steps forward and the whimpers grow into barks, is that a dog has taken refuge under her car. The final thought, when she bends down and sees nothing but the faintest tip of a furiously moving tail, is that it’s time to call in a mechanic.

So of course the first thing she does is call Hannibal.

“Alana? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine. I just need a favor.”

“Anything for a friend.”

Fifteen minutes later, Hannibal is rolling into her driveway and exiting the car. He kneels down and although he apparently isn’t as partial to dogs as she is, he certainly understands Alana’s dilemma – and since he has enhanced hearing, he certainly gets an earful of the puppy alternating crying and barking.

Alana uses that moment to spring a request on him. Originally she’d only asked for a ride to HQ, but now she seizes the moment. “Do you think you could get the puppy out? With your abilities?”

“It’s . . . very likely,” Hannibal says slowly. “But I am not a true mechanic.”

If Alana knows anything about Hannibal, it’s that he is very eager to pit himself against challenges, very prone to learning strange things for the hell of it, and sometimes very proud to show off his random bits of knowledge. If he says he’s not a true mechanic, it probably means that he’s just a bit rusty from whenever he took a dive into car machinery that one time. It also means that he’s very likely to agree, just to see if he can do it without accidentally murdering the puppy.

Alana fiddles with her phone. “My mechanic is delayed, unfortunately, or I wouldn’t ask you, I swear.”

She has to restrain her glee when Hannibal gives into his curiosity, shedding his coat and rolling up his sleeves. In seconds, he’s got his hands deep in her car’s engine, never mind that grease and dirt that likely are going to stain his thousand-dollar shirts. 

No matter. He’s rich enough to buy more suits, and it’ll just assist her plan in moving forward.

* * *

After about 45 minutes, when Hannibal has most of the puppy out, Alana steps into the kitchen – ostensibly to update the FBI on when they’ll be coming in for the day – but instead she dials Will. Will answers readily enough, given that they’ve met several more times at Margot’s mansion and he warmed to her when it became clear she was okay with adhering to his massive personal space bubble and didn’t hold long, drawn-out conversations.

“Hey, Alana. What’s up?”

“Hey, Will. I hate to bother you so early, but I’ve got a puppy somehow stuck in my car engine. I can’t get him out, but I can definitely see him. And I don’t know how long he’s been stuck there, and it’s pretty cold this morning. Do you think you could come over and help?”

Will’s agreeing before she even finishes the question.

And just like, the second part of her plan is put into motion.

* * *

If there’s one thing Alana is almost as good at as Hannibal, it’s timing. She’s always been great at ensuring that things fall exactly in place with each tick of the clock hand, and it serves her beautifully now.

Just as Will pulls up and gets out, a gearbox in one hand and wearing hastily thrown on coveralls over pajamas, Hannibal pulls the last of the puppy free and has to hastily sit back on his heels lest he be knocked over by the puppy’s very enthusiastic thank you tongue bath all over his face. It means that Will’s first glance of the situation is Hannibal, covered in grease and disheveled and holding a wriggling, happy puppy in his hands as the puppy does it best to baptize every inch of Hannibal’s face.

Even the hardest cynic’s heart would melt at that, and Alana can _see_ how Will crumbles like a sandcastle before the rising tide.

And when Will hesitantly approaches, making eye contact for the first time she’s ever seen, Hannibal isn’t stupid enough to let the opportunity pass him by. He happily sits on the pavement in the dirt and chats with Will, both of them wearing silly besotted expressions whenever the other looks away to catch their breath or pet the puppy that is walking back and forth to paw at their pants.

Alana takes photos until she runs out of space on her phone, and congratulates herself on a mission definitely accomplished.

* * *

When Alana goes over to Margot’s to show her the photos, she learns that the custom display that normally is for showing off costumes and uniforms can also be used to project photos. So Alana and Margot share a bottle of wine and kick back on the couch to coo at the slideshow of Hannibal and Will as they coo at the puppy, blush as they speak, and then gaze longingly at the other’s face. It’s quite a nice slideshow.

“This is the best thing I have ever seen,” Margot says in between giggles. It is possible they’ve had quite a lot of wine right now, but Alana still thinks Margot’s laughter is adorable. “I did not know that Hannibal’s puppy eyes could get any stronger, and I am thrilled to be proven wrong.”

Alana flips to the next photo, where Hannibal and Will have their heads pressed together as they both attempt to pacify the puppy. To see Will’s curls mixed with Hannibal’s disheveled strands is quite a sight.

“I bet they’re going to name that puppy something unpronounceable,” Margot predicts.

Alana disagrees. “Not if Will gets to it first.”

Margot considers this. Then she seems to remember how quickly Hannibal had agreed to try and assist when Alana had insinuated that her mechanic was Will and was coming over, and she nods rapidly. “Then it might be named something simple. I mean, he named my dog Applesauce because we found her destroying my pantry door to get to it.”

“That is adorable.”

By the time they’re finished with the slideshow, it’s definitely past Alana’s bedtime, but she’s comfortable where she is, curled up on the couch with Margot, the wine long finished and thick blankets draped over them. It’s been so long since she’s had a nice girls night that Alana doesn’t want it to end, and although it would be a long commute to the FBI tomorrow, she seriously considers asking Margot to let her stay.

Before she can though, Margot says suddenly, “I cannot wait to make their wedding suits. They’re gonna be the envy of every woman present.”

“I know,” Alana says, because she’s seen both of them half naked – Hannibal during fittings, Will during repairs – and it’s enough to make her drool. “Every guest in their reception is probably going to hook up to work off the tension, because we both know Hannibal is going to show off Will and cook his little heart out.”

“It’ll taste amazing though.”

“Understatement.”

“Maybe the next person we should work on is you,” Margot says thoughtfully. “I know plenty of Reapers if that’s your type.”

“Heavens, no,” Alana laughs. “Just because I go for men and women doesn’t mean I want to include Reapers in that designation. What about you, what’s your type?”

“Hmm. Bold and clever,” Margot says.

And, well, Alana would have be a lot drunker to miss the way Margot looks at her as she says thought, fingers wrapped around her empty wine glass and her eyes sparkling in the light of the slideshow, which is flickering between photographs at random moments now that they’ve stopped actively engaging it. 

Jumping where her instincts lead her as worked pretty well so far, so Alana decides to keep on doing it. “My type,” Alana says, “is someone strong and fierce. Not in my face, but the kind of quiet strength, the unshakeable core of the unmovable object. And with an amazing fashion sense.”

“Fashion sense? Do tell. I know a _lot_ of people in the industry.”

“But only one is the best.”

They share a small, secret smile for that, and when Margot finally finishes her wine and sashays off, crooking a finger behind her, Alana can’t do anything but put her own glass down and follow.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

_Breaking News: After years of inactivity, the Chesapeake Ripper has struck again! This is his biggest display yet, with over twenty victims taken to form a human ark, upon which there are two more posed in the shape of the last humans on earth, preparing to send off a dove to find land upon which to build a home._

**Will Graham** : Red alert, Margot. Your spouse is about to get really mad at mine.  
**Margot Verger** : I’ll put on some tea.

 **Alana Bloom-Verger** : HANNIBAL LECTER  
**Hannibal Graham-Lecter** : Yes, Agent Bloom?  
**Alana Bloom-Verger** : DON’T YOU ‘AGENT BLOOM’ ME! I DID NOT APPROVE TWENTY BODIES HOW RUDE OF YOU NOT TO NOTIFY ME!  
**Hannibal Graham-Lecter** : I assure you, this is a standard part of the Reaper courtship ritual, Agent Bloom.  
**Alana Bloom-Verger** : MOST OF THEM AREN’T MORE THAN TWO BODIES.  
**Hannibal Graham-Lecter** : But how else will Will know that I love him and we are meant to be together forever?  
**Alana Bloom-Verger** : BY YOU USING YOUR WORDS AND TELLING HIM. AT LEAST WILL KNOWS HOW TO ACT LIKE A GROWN UP.  
**Hannibal Graham-Lecter** : I take it you approve and will help me fill out the change in marital status form, then?

 **Will Graham** : You might need something a little stronger than tea.  
**Margot Verger** : It’s a good thing you repaired my wine cellar.

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hannibal and Will get married, which means Hannibal can be the antidote to Will accidentally resurrecting everything he touches. Margot and Alana also get married and Margot makes the most amazing wedding attire that's the envy of everyone present. Alana holds the record for the longest partnership with Hannibal in the FBI. Will and Margot set up a system to notify each other whenever Hannibal or Alana piss each other off. It cools down after Hannibal and Will get married, but sometimes there are times when Hannibal gets carried away, like on anniversaries and such. 
> 
> Also, in case it wasn't clear: the Federal Bureau of Incredibles is a secret department within the regular FBI which works to contract Reapers. Reapers would kill people anyways cuz that's their job, but the FBI tries to spread things out and also sends them to assassinate people. They do murder displays mostly to remind people that they exist, kinda like how the gods of Olympus would just mess with people because why not.
> 
> Find me @ Telegram as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady) : [NewTumbl as thesilverqueen](https://thesilverqueen.newtumbl.com/) : [Dreamwidth as thesilverqueenlady](https://thesilverqueenlady.dreamwidth.org/)


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